I only got four hours of sleep. I need at least eight, but who has time for that? I had everyone else’s problems to solve, diary. When I left the inn, it was fucking raining again. It rained for two hours before it tapered off, and guess who was outside that entire time? At least I was finally clean — there aren’t any baths around here. Or bathrooms for that matter. It’s highly inconvenient.

After the storm cleared, it turned into a beautiful sunny day, and I spent it doing my favorite activity. No, not that. I’m a recapper, but I have other interests besides whacking off, you know. Nope, I once again spent time wandering aimlessly around the countryside, collecting ingredients. Hey, who needs a job when you can sell your drugs homemade potions? Somehow I don’t think the Recapiere name is going to be restored to its former glory anytime soon.

But diary, I know you’re not interested in my collection of herbs and shrooms — you want to know all about my adventures with the Gay Fox and my spy mission with Agarmir. Since it wasn’t anywhere near midnight, and Armand Christophe was most likely asleep, the lucky bastard, I decided to check in on Agarmir instead. It turns out he hadn’t left his house yet — what a lazy piece of shit. Of course, I would probably be just as lazy if I had a freaking house. I guess I can’t really judge.

While killing time, I sold some of my mind-altering potions to Jensine and gave her an update on my progress. She said that her “sources” told her that no information exists on Agarmir — thus, he must be using a false name. This was the first time I even mentioned Agarmir to her — how did she know about him in advance? Did she have more than one person on this mission? I felt just a bit insulted. Yeah, I’m not exactly speedy, but it’s not like I’m totally ignoring the task either. Not like that unimportant little matter of the Amulet of Kings.

When I returned to Agarmir’s house, he had finally left. Thank God! Or the Nine Divines, if you prefer. The Imperial Watch was making the rounds, so I had to wait for them to pass by before I could go in with my lockpicks. Let’s just say I’m glad I stocked up on those damn things the night before (and splurged on that Security training). I’m even gladder that no one was around to see my miserable performance picking that lock. Honestly, I would have been better off hacking the door down with my sword.

Although my main intention was to look for something suspicious, I admit that I also took the opportunity to…uh…acquire some more items for my potion-making endeavors. Oh come on, the guy had fruit lying out on every available surface — and I’m not referring to Thoronir. He also had a plethora of bulging sacks in his locked basement. Again, not Thoronir.

I hoped that I would find something significantly incriminating that would at least make me feel better about looting the guy’s house. And boy, did I. In the basement, I stumbled upon something almost as creepy as Tidus’s grin during the Pond Scene. Bloodstains and human skulls littered the floor, along with numerous piles of Bonemeal. Holy friggin’ shit, diary! I’d inadvertently stumbled upon the lair of Cyrodiil’s resident Dexter!

I should have hightailed it out of there, possibly screaming, but I was intrigued by the very obvious book sitting on a nearby table, surrounded by candles. I know a “Look Here, Dumbass!” setup when I see one. I figured I would be treated to Agarmir’s psychotic ramblings about his deadly deeds. Instead, it was just a boring list of items he had looted from corpses. In other words, Agarmir was a mere graverobber, not a serial killer. I admit I was a little disappointed, diary.

I grabbed the book so that I’d have proof to show Thoronir. I didn’t know whether or not he was in on the “Selling Dead People’s Shit” conspiracy or not, but there was only one way to find out. Oh, and I also stole some fine clothes that were lying around the basement. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.

Now it was time to leave. And it was raining again. Hopefully it would wash the horrible stench of death from my new clothing.

Unfortunately, I was too late to make it to Thoronir’s shop before closing. Once again, I would have to wait to ruin his day. And I still had a few hours to waste before handing over the diary to Armand Christophe and earning my rightful place in the Thieves Guild. It would be nice to finish one quest around here.

I decided to kill time with the “Talk To Everyone” activity I so love. At least one guy told me some useful information — in order to find out more about the, um, special properties of Nirnroot plants, I should consult some guy in Skingrad named Sinderion. Skingrad? Okay, the city will henceforth be known as “Skinflute.” I filed away Sinderion and his expertise on medicinal “herbs” for later.

Also, I encountered a man in a fabulous velvet ensemble, much like the one I stole from Agarmir’s basement. He seemed nice enough, but then introduced himself as Amantius Allectus. Yes, thatAmantius Allectus. I ran as fast as Squall upon encountering a group of Rinoa zombies. Smooth, Jeanne. Real smooth. I made a note to actually read his diary, though. Given his taste in fashion, I expected a gay bonanza from that book.

I got to the “Garden” of Dareloth a tad early, so I sat down to read some juicy stories before Armand showed up to take the diary off my hands. Well. The story was certainly juicy, but not in the way I hoped. See, this Amantius Allectus guy, when he’s not out in the middle of the night wearing flamboyant clothing, enjoys creating blood-drinking plants in the basement. Everyone needs a hobby, I guess. He mentioned that they are “a hybrid of vampire and plant.” Were, rather. The experiment was a failure (read: the plants were too bloodthirsty) and he had to destroy them. Maybe if he had made them sparkle and have violent sex with an unconscious partner, they would have been more successful. Then, even though he claimed to have destroyed his notes on how to create these abominations, the last paragraph of his diary clearly stated the formula for creating them. Whatever.

Don’t worry, diary. I’m not planning on using this information. I have enough hassles in my life without bringing bloodsucking plants into the mix. Besides, if I wanted to be responsible for raising a bunch of greedy and frightening creatures, I’d have kids.

The contents of the diary made it even less clear to me why these dickheads had stolen my diary pages. Especially the most boring of the bunch. Why did they leave behind the stuff about the Emperor’s assassination and take the “exciting” story of my visit to the arena? Dumbasses.

Methredhel showed up first to the party, which was odd, since I thought she was only there the previous night to join the guild. Was she getting another chance? That didn’t explain why she was still bitching at me for ruining her chance to join the guild. Hey, I wasn’t the one who made her so shitty at sneaking. It’s not my fault I can sneak and move at the same time. Stop blaming other people for your problems, bitch.

Armand followed close behind, although I’m sure that he doesn’t do that with a woman very often. I presented the stolen diary to Armand and his flaming torch. He jizzed himself over my victory — metaphorically, of course — but then gave me three rules I had to follow in order to remain in the guild. Lame! As a recapper, I enjoy making rules, not following them. Basically, I’m not allowed to steal from anyone in the guild, I’m not allowed to murder anyone, and I’m not allowed to steal from the poor. Why the fuck would I steal from the poor? They’re poor. By definition, they don’t own shit. Refraining from murdering would be the really difficult one. Sure, he said I could kill animals and monsters (even though I like animals better than people…not in that way, diary), but what if some jackass bandit attacked me? Well, I wasn’t going to let myself die horribly in some dungeon just because the Gay Fox said so.

Now that I was in the guild, Armand had a ton of exposition for me. Right away, I asked about the consequences for murder. Apparently, breaking any of the three rules would get me kicked out of the guild. No shit, Sherlock. Luckily, it would be possible to rejoin the guild after paying a certain price. At least I wouldn’t be totally screwed out of buying lockpicks if I “accidentally” murdered someone. Also, I learned about Doyens (the people who give me thieving jobs, like Armand), fences (the people who buy my stolen shit), and so on. The only fence available for a newbie like me is this guy Ongar all the way up in Bruma. As it turns out, I need to sell a bunch of stolen shit to this guy before Armand will even consider giving me a more important job. Although I don’t know why I’m bitching about that — I already have enough on my plate for the moment.

So yay, I had officially joined the Thieves Guild and that means one more way to make money in addition to selling my special brews. Hooray for breaking the law!

One more pertinent piece of information — apparently Armand Cristophe and Homonymus Lex had some history as well. Armand said he “humiliated” Lex when the captain tried to arrest him sometime in the past, and now Lex had a bug up his butt wherever Armand was involved. None of what I just wrote surprises me.

Since I didn’t sleep very long last night, I decided to turn in early. Spotting the corpses of the pirates once again — does no one clean up the city? — I got an idea. With no one nearby, I snuck onto the pirate ship and found the captain’s cushy bed. I don’t care if it’s creepy — I considered it a kind of “fuck you” to the mean pirates that attacked me. So that’s where I am now. I just hope if the captain’s still alive somewhere he doesn’t show up and defile me in my sleep. You’ll be the first to know if he does, diary. Sweet dreams!